The Road
by FallingFromBrokenWings
Summary: Now a small two-shot. History is written by those who have one. If you have no history are you fit to write it? The Courier had no answer.
1. History As It's Known

The Sierra Madre.

_It was letting go..._

The Burned Man.

_O' Daughter of Babylon..._

The Big Empty.

_Creating Old World Blues..._

Old rifle, held in a grip affirmed by the deeds of an honest heart, the armour of a former Legate, given as a gift for saving his soul in his darkest of hours, and a simple red beret, given by the most trustworthy of companions, was all she took with her. It was habit; perhaps both a blessing and a curse, travelling light offered the best movement, yet made her trials more difficult. But, trials by fire were what had shaped her. She had been shuffled a hand that most men or women couldn't play out, yet she had done the impossible, by beating the house and choosing the fates of many.

Simple sigh passed her lips, she had never chosen to do what she had done, but was driven to see it to the end. It was odd, how the start and the end differed so wildly. From being dragged out of the grave by a robot controlled by the most influential man of New Vegas, the last thing she did before coming here was deliver a sliver of justice straight into the brain of a tyrant. And after that she had planned to help the N.C.R. at Hoover dam, hand them a victory.

Or so was the plan, but her life rarely went as planned. Between a botched delivery resulting in two rather painful scars, being kidnapped, twice no less, having various important organs removed and replaced, a failed expedition and more caps lost than she would like to admit, quite simply, the universe really liked to toy with her. Having seen both ends of the spectrum of luck, she was quite sure no matter what happened things would turn out in her favour somehow. And now here she was, on a barren stretch of nothing.

Silence was getting to her, having gotten used to the playful banter of her companions. They had been left at her suite in the Lucky 38, ED-E, Cass, Raul, the lot of them. Well, except for Arcade, having returned to the Followers at the Old Mormon Fort. All of them had become the closest thing to friends and family she would ever find, or would ever remember.

It was sad, really, how she had forgotten what ever life she lived before, how her mind was wiped back to a blank slate. Perhaps that was why she held such fury against Benny, not just for killing her, but killing everyone and everything she held dear, every memory gone with the white hot flash of a muzzle. While she was yes, technically a killer and a murderer, she never killed unless out of self-defence or spilled the blood of an innocent, and she never took pleasure in it. Except for Benny. That smug, conniving bastard of a snake was the only time she enjoyed a death, without a hint of remorse, without any doubts.

She started to wish her feet would echo out against the burning pavement, for something to make noise. But all there was the wind, barely audible though. The road offered no solace on her journey, and with no companions at her back, her mind drifted as it seemed to always do in the silence.

Somehow it never dwelled on things, or sights, it always dwelled on people, and less so on places. The hell of red mist, what was once the Sierra Madre, and the Ghost People, seemed to seep through into her nightmares the most, but the people, the misguided souls she met were what her mind fell to now. Elijah, who she thought of as someone whose goals, whose passions absorbed and controlled him, turning him into a hideous monster of a man. For all the atrocities he has done, she had still hoped that he found whatever he sought in the vault, even if he could never fulfil his dreams, trapped there until his death. There was Dean, a voice of velvet even if his skin was more like abused leather, was also a monster of sorts, but in a way redeemable. Another hope, was that he found what had happened all those years ago, and changed him, even if just in the smallest of ways. The dual entities of Dog and God, personalities split, body together, had been a brutal horror to see. But she had saved them, yet killed them in a way, for neither existed anymore than the other now; she finally made them see each other before joining as one. Rage was stilled and hunger was sated, at the cost of memories of both herself and their past. But it was for the best, she thought. Last and not least, was Christine, and there was a place in her heart for her. The once mute woman, now voiced by a soul long since passed, whose love was lost because of Elijah. And while she never said who, in her heart she knew somehow. But she never had the chance to ask her, nor tell her, of Veronica, who still held a small piece of her heart for Christine. In fact, she never had a chance to say goodbye, to any of them, and that pained her heart.

In Zion, she saved the valley, and the tribes that called it home. While she mourned the loss of the caravan she was with, she pressed on. That fabled Burned Man, baptised in both water and flame, welcomed her to the paradise, expressing his own sorrow for the caravan, for they had always been friends to him and the New Canaanites. After learning of the fates of the tribals in the area, she offered her help without pause. And so she did. Helping the Sorrows and the Dead Horses wipe the White Legs from the valley, she stayed Joshua Graham's hand, and in turn his wrath was quenched, humbled. At the passage that led from Zion back to the Mojave, he bid her farewell personally, leaving both his vest and a scripture as a gift, a token of gratitude. And so with a final thanks, she departed, and he returned to Dead Horse Point with his tribe. She had studied the scripture thoroughly when she returned.

And so, finally her mind drifted to the events at the Big Empty, with the fanatical Think Tank, and all the joys of science it brought. Even in her own mind, and with her own eyes, she still couldn't believe half of what she had seen and done. How some of the biggest threats of the Mojave were created there, how both friends and enemies had been there before her. But, after all she had done there, saving the facility for future generations, ensuring the safety and prosperity of the future, somehow that mattered little. What her mind thought of there, and what intrigued her so, was simple recordings, not anything revealing, or final, but raised questions in her mind.

_"America sleeps. And until it's dead, I carry it, like I carried you, more than hope. Belief."_

Once again she cursed Benny, for as much as that voice rung in her head, for every time it almost chimed with familiarity, she drew blanks. This man was part of her past somehow and she had done something to him, what she had no clue. Those not quite there thoughts, lost ones, made the small area around her right eye burn, as if blocked by the pain and scars. And unusually, her hand ached, only happening a time or two in her short remembered life. The grip she had on the rifle faltered, shaking and loose.

Joshua Graham had mentioned a courier, rumoured to be a Frumentarii _,_ and her hand began to ache.

Doctor Klein talked of a man who came... and went, her hand ached then.

_"If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill."_

With that, and the final slinking through a crevice, her foot sunk itself deep into the ash of an old world, into a land ravaged by time and nature. A place where she would get her answers. The lonesome road was treacherous and long, and as such few have survived long enough to get there. And none have returned. Here at The Divide, she would be answered, and here she would find him.

Home, in the back her mind the word echoed. Maybe she was coming home. Or she was walking straight into her grave.

Perhaps it was both.


	2. Written by the Victor

_Who are you that do not know your history?_

Burned. That question burned worse than any wound she had felt, so much more than it should have. Was a question not even directed at her, but it felt more personal than it had right to.

She had forgotten Jerusalem, and in turn her right hand forgot its skill. Not even the bullet that pierced her skull was to blame for that. No, she forgot it, simply because it ceased to exist. Because she _burned _it, she brought the sands to life, she condemned the dwellers of the Divide, and she destroyed a nation in its beginning. Her home, she remembered, a lonely child that left as soon as she could walk, who only kept on walking. The walking turned into her life, her career. She returned, still lonely, but with hope. Perhaps that was what she did, brought her home hope, letting it grow. But it was all for not. A mistake, a simple, impossible, bloody appalling mistake, something done with no ill intent; it was just a delivery.

One simple delivery. That is all it was, as single, simple delivery. A delivery issued by the NCR, to be taken by courier.

That's all she was, a bloody courier. The Courier, for some reason, as if she was the only one or the only one history would find worth in remembering. Maybe, just maybe that is what would happen. All with two bullets; that's all it took. Two bullets; all it took to wipe her history from her, to propel her into macabre fame and change her in the eyes of history.

She would be remembered for _what _she was. Not _who._

And even more so after today.

For at the heart of The Divide a weapon laid, two rounds to fire. All it took was a single choice. Do unto others as they have done to you?

Right arm held limp at her side, hanging much lower than it should have, she continued to stumble towards the wreckage that brought her to The Divide. Perhaps anger now was the only thing that kept her going, a seething fury that boiled just below her wind torn skin. It wasn't until now that she could feel it. The droplets of bright blood that snaked their way down her flayed skin, the only colour against her paling flesh. Marked; by the Divide for the atrocities committed out of ignorance and innocence. Marked; like the men who wore remnants of flags bearing the Bear and the Bull. Marked; with anger just like those men.

The marks could heal, if given time, she hoped. She prayed. Because in her mind, nagging with reckless abandon was that she was becoming more like those she met, then she was of herself.

She was, as much as it pained her to say it, Elijah; so bloody stubborn, steadfastly following his goals until they be thoroughly finished. Looking to begin again, slate cleansed so as to bring new life. Violence begets violence, though. Darkness can't drive darkness away. She knew that, but that made her resolve in her choice falter. She never doubted, however, that any chance she had for atonement was long… long gone.

She was Joshua Graham; a man burdened by misdeeds for a cause that he once believed in, one atoning for those same beliefs. She knew she would come to regret what she had done there, in the heart of the Divide, but maybe it was right. Maybe it was what history needed.

She was the Think Tank in its entirety; living in blissful ignorance of their actions. Minds trapped in time, their past forgotten, the present of no importance, and the future uncertain and pointless. Those who do not know what they have done are condemned to repeat it forever more. She knew every sordid detail, every mistake, and every step.

She was him; trying to find a place to call his own, to set up roots, to live. A man who steadfastly believed and lived by his own sense of honour; that was evidence of how one single person (Her…) shaped the lives of those unknown. That's what she was now. There was no road back, no history for her anymore. All she was now was not a clean slate but one worn down and faded, illegible and forgotten, for her history to be written on.

Now she stumbled wearily against the loose sand and ash, the last of the ash of a civilization stillborn. It was the last of a road she would never walk again, in either direction. The jolt of involuntary movement caused her entire arm to ache. As much as she believed in the good book, this wasn't a loss of skill, at least not at this moment. Medicine, while not a strong suit for her, she knew enough of to know her arm would be nigh useless for months. She could very well feel the cracks and shards of bone grinding against each other, burrowing into her flesh, where she was struck by the simplest of staffs.

It was the very same staff she had slung loosely over her back, the only thing she was able to carry with her out from his temple. Her rifle, this machine that had delivered justice with fiery passion, one that saved her life on more occasions than she cared to remember, lay broken; abandoned, its stock shattered and fragmented from blow after blow to both _his_ face and the those of the men marked by the divide. That fight had been in anger, frustration, closure. The world did not need two couriers. It could be said, it didn't need even one.

* * *

><p><em>Her pale eyes burned brighter than they ever had, burned like The Divide does in the heat of day. His eyes glowed faintly, just like irradiated nights. There they stood, eye to eye for the first time in history. Two couriers bearing a different message; different flag for one another. Neither moved for the longest time, because even raging anger towards one another couldn't make them ignore the facts. They were the same coin, the complimentary sides facing away from each other, yet steadfastly together. So simply they stood, weapons in hand as the savage beasts of The Divide funneled into the sanctuary. And one simple nod was all it took to break the status quo. <em>

_With a grace she had mastered in her new life, she wasted no moment as she spun around, bringing the rifle to shoulder, firing a round straight into the head of the first beast to enter her sights. It fell with no fanfare, no rejoicing, as she fired round after round into the beasts. Eight fell with expert precision, rifle emptied. She never had a chance to reload._

_They closed with reckless abandon, anger driving them at the couriers. He bolted from where he stood mere moments ago, meeting the charge just ahead of her. And she went in after him. Crudely, she savaged the first beast to come with range, an unceremonious strike with her rifle's stock. Without warning he turned midstride; she very nearly didn't see his swing come for her. The blow made the bone crack beneath the already wounded flesh, a cry of agony escaping her lips. But she didn't relent, the favour returned with equal force; the barrel of her rifle jabbed into his ribs, shattered was her reward. It was when a blade swung between them did they avert the attention back to the beasts, him masterfully crushing the neck of the invading presence with a simple swing._

_Arm aching so familiarly, the nigh prophetic pain of wounds yet to be received now slowly becoming a reality made her strikes falter, but didn't remove their force. Her next strike struck his jaw, sending his breathing mask soaring away. It was only then did he show any sign of slowing down, a brief flash of worry in his odd eyes. Spare moment that she refused to waste; with little grace she gripped her rifle by the barrel, swinging wildly at the beasts that intruded. Their numbers were fewer than ever now, a scarce handful plaguing the hall of the temple. _

_Even fewer stood when he regained his bearing, moving with that unnatural speed of his, that foreign grace. He met them head on once more and once more she followed without pause._

* * *

><p>Flayed skin, broken bones, shattered soul, she fell just past the canyon wreckage, sprawling out into that comforting Mojave dust. Familiar senses; the cooling dusk air, the faint glow of The Strip some hundred miles away, the coyotes off in the distant. Her heart stopped. Breathe held. Rolling onto her back with no small amount of pain, she simply stared into Mojave night sky, the faint twinkling stars.<p>

She prayed.

Oh Lord she prayed.

She prayed she made the right choice.

* * *

><p><em>The stock of her rifle splintered in a fanfare as she struck the final beast down with brutal savagery. Gripping the barrel now bent from its use as an impromptu club, she turned to him. Slouched in pain, shoulders sagging with little strength their eyes met again. Both of them were tired beyond all reason. Both of them were now feeling their wounds.<em>

"_Divide Dweller."_

"_Twisted Hair."_

_They grimaced, not in disdain, but at the bitter truth. They were no better than one another. If one lived, they would carry the knowledge that they brought an end to a people. Neither made a move towards the other. It was that final line in the sand they couldn't cross._

"_The end, Courier. Both of us."_

_Coughs racked his chest, ragged and tearing. The seething anger boiling in her cooled. It was a simple sigh that passed her lips as she dropped the useless rifle. Stumbling her way to him, her arm wrapped supportively around his shoulders, guiding him towards the controls that would change their fate. _

"_You're right, for us. But not for them. It's just the beginning."_

_A knowing nod. A faltering hand. More tears then history would remember. Coordinates changed. One final look. Confirmation._

* * *

><p>Propped against stone, she stared off into the distance, towards that shining star in the desert. New Vegas. How much blood was shed? Lives wasted and life extinguished? Not just from Bear and Bull, no. From so much more.<p>

War never really changed. Battles were fought, wars were lost. Trained men and women, they won the battles. Exemplary and talented men and women, they lost the wars. Over Old World ideals, over repentance, over greed, over fate. Wars would be fought until man ceased to be.

The staff she held in her hands was no trophy, no spoil of war. It was a gift. Just like the tattered duster left with a simple message.

Her eyes wandered to the sky, a smile forming at her lips. Rockets' red glare… they weren't there. No trail of smoke and flames. No smoke to come from the horizon. She knew he was looking as well. Debating, denying, and accepting their choice.

* * *

><p>"<em>Was it right?"<em>

_One final glance over the expanse of The Divide and she turned to him. _

"_No." She answered simply. "But who are we to decide?"_

_He nodded in that thoughtful way, his calm not helping her doubts._

"_Men without history are not fit to make it."_

_She didn't know, not then at least._

"_Walk safe, Ulysses."_

_One final look at her and he turned to The Divide._

"_Walk straight, Marian."_

* * *

><p>The straight and narrow was never an easy path, but she had found it with natural grace. But not now. Never again would it be that easy. She learned that honour was vice and virtue hand in hand. She knew that the right choice was not always best.<p>

Men and women change not just from the roads they walk, but the people they pass, the trials of fire. For better or for worse, she changed.

She now knew she had a choice. And she had to choose right.


End file.
